by Peter Franklin
Scratching,
Itching to claw its way out…
Demon dog at the screen door locked in my head…
Howling…growling
Want to get out, to bite and chew.
Sticks and stones
May break my bones…but it’s the
Words that frighten me the most.
Hurled in hurt, seemingly benign syllables
Glance off.
Minor scratches on the surface
Begin to fester and swell.
Infection. Sore.
Inside, I want to scream out
But I don’t because my society has taught me that
Discretion is the better part of valor…
To stand tough and take it.
Brush it off.
It’s not gentlemanly to behave in an uncivilized manner.
You, however, apparently have no trouble
sleeping at night, acting with such
social depravity
That people are afraid to pass you on the street…
to speak against you…to truly express
what’s trying to break through the
emotional prophylactic of speaking freely.
Of seeking redress.
The rest of us walk around all bottled up…frothing, fermenting…
eating away at our insides…
just waiting for the moment to verbally joust.
It won’t come. Rarely does.
Life does not imitate sitcoms.
The rules keep the rabid mental curs in place…
Lunging against the chains that hold all in check…
Somewhat secure…in fear
of the consequences.
The corset of society squeezes out
Milquetoast.
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